“The library?”
“To hear Grace Fitzgerald read from Superior Blue. I won’t be able to close.”
Annie jumped in. “Me either. I’ve got softball practice.”
“Stevie and I will close up.” He ran his hand through his son’s hair. “We’ll have a guy’s night out. What do you say, buddy?”
Stevie shrugged. “Okay. When can I fish?”
Cork looked to his daughters.
“Go on, Dad,” Jenny said. “We’ll take care of everything here.”
“Thanks. Thanks a lot.”
Cork drove to the Iron Lake Reservation. He tried not to think. There was only one reason he wanted to go, and he knew if he thought about it too much, he’d have hated himself. Not enough time had passed since the days when Jo had lied to him about the places she was going and who she would be with and what they would do. He’d believed her then. Against all evidence. Now he had to see. He had to see her on the reservation. He hoped she was following up on Charlie
Warren. But God help him, he had to know absolutely.
He pulled into Alouette a little before noon and stopped at LeDuc’s store. Inside, he found George LeDuc standing beside the magazine rack at the broad front window, staring down the street.
“Anin, George,” Cork said, using the traditional Anishinaabe greeting.
“Anin, Cork.” The darkness in LeDuc’s face came from more than just the genetic coloring of his skin. “You’re the first person to walk through that door today who wasn’t a reporter.”
“Bad, huh?”
LeDuc shook his head. “I don’t have any answers for them, except that Charlie Warren wasn’t the kind of man to make bombs.”
“What was he doing out there?”
“Got me.” LeDuc walked to the counter where the cash register sat, reached into a tall glass jar, and drew out a stick of beef jerky. He offered it to Cork, who waved it off. LeDuc tore off a bit and worked the tough meat around in his mouth. “It was always Charlie Warren’s voice advising us to be patient, be reasonable, be strong. This just doesn’t make sense.”
“Have you talked to your guests?”
Cork was speaking of the scores of tents that had been erected in the new park just north of town. The tribal council had voted to open the site to those who’d come to Aurora to join them in the battle to save Our Grandfathers. They represented a variety of interests and were almost entirely white.
“They didn’t know Charlie Warren. When I speak with them, they nod, but I see distrust in their eyes.” He swallowed jerky and took a deep breath.
Cork saw something in LeDuc’s own dark almond eyes. “You don’t trust them, either.”
“We fight a different cause, Cork. They want all logging halted. We’re just interested in protecting Our Grandfathers. They don’t seem to care that if all logging is prohibited, we suffer, too.”
Cork knew he was speaking of the mill in Brandywine, the other community on the rez. The mill was operated by the Iron Lake Ojibwe and was supplied with timber cut by Ojibwe loggers.
“Like always, they have their own agenda. It’s not really about helping us Shinnobs.” He stepped back to the front window again and stared down the street. “Another thing. They don’t often shower.”
“George,” Cork asked finally, “have you seen Jo?”
“Not today. I called her office and left a message. She out here?”
His stomach gave a little twist. “I thought so.”
“Tell her we need to talk. If you see her.”
“I’ll do that.”
Cork walked through Alouette. The distance from one end of town to the other was just over half a mile. A few years earlier, most of the three or four dozen houses and trailers in town were in desperate need of renovation or bulldozing. Now the influence of the casino could be seen in new siding and shingles and paint. Old cars still sat on blocks in the backyards, but there were new vehicles in the drives. And money didn’t mean that a man who didn’t cut his grass before would cut it now. Still, on the whole, Alouette wore a new look. Within the last two years, a big community center had been built, as well as a clinic run by the People and staffed by a doctor, a physician’s assistant, and two nurses, all Ojibwe Anishinaabe. The businesses-LeDuc’s store, Medina’s Mobile station, and the Makwa Cafe-were all doing well and looked it.
The heat was oppressive. As much as possible, Cork stayed in the shade of the huge oaks that lined the street. When he didn’t see Jo’s car at the community center, he simply kept walking, moving numbly. At the northern edge of town, he paused and studied the gathering of tents that filled the new park. Among the old vans and Saabs and the four-by-fours parked in the lot were several vehicles with broadcasting logos across their sides. Cork saw a number of tent people speaking with reporters and posing for photos. The kid who’d nearly been pulverized by Erskine Ellroy was facing the lens of a television camera and pronouncing boldly, “If war is what they want, hell, we’ll give it to them.”
Cork shook his head. They could use a good lawyer.
As if the thought had conjured her, Jo pulled up in her Toyota and stopped.
“Cork, what are you doing out here?”
He didn’t have a good answer for that one.
“Playing sheriff,” she said finally, unhappily.
“Playing?”
“You know what I mean.” She got out and stood beside him under the shade of an oak. The heat rose from the hood of her car in shimmering sheets, evidence that she’d been driving quite a bit. Her eyes shifted toward what Cork was watching, the kid talking to the television reporter. “Someone ought to be advising these people,” she said. “If they’re not careful, they’ll end up doing more harm than good.”
“Where have you been?” Cork asked.
“I wanted to talk with Charlie Warren’s daughter, try to get some idea what possible reason there could have been for him to be at the mill.”
Cork felt relieved. And ashamed. “How’s she doing?”
“Holding up.”
“Was she able to tell you anything?”
“Apparently, Charlie had become pretty secretive of late. Gone nights. Back around daybreak. No explanation. He was a little old for it to have been a woman, I think.”
Cork leaned back against the rough bark of the oak. “It’s hard to believe Charlie would be involved in the kind of thing that happened at the mill.”
Jo watched as the kid finished the interview and shook hands with the reporter. “Schanno’s people and the BCA agents turned up just as I was leaving. Warrants to search for evidence.”
“They find anything?”
“No.” She glanced to her right. “Speak of the devil.”
A dark blue Bonneville approached them from the same direction Jo had come. As it pulled abreast, Cork could see Agent Earl at the wheel. Earl had been looking at the tent city, but as he passed, he turned his eyes on Cork and Jo. Recognition registered in them, but little else. Because Jo represented the Ojibwe, she was probably, in his estimation, part of the problem. And Cork? More than likely he was just a man who flipped burgers and had no business investigating anything. The car moved on, slowly traveling to the other end of town, then south toward the edge of the reservation.
Cork stood in the shade, very close to Jo, but not looking at her. He wanted to say something, something simple that would sum up what he felt, an equation factored from love and fear and darker things he could not name. But nothing simple came to him.
“Where to now?” he asked.
“Back to the office. You?”
“Sam’s Place. Give the girls a break. They’ve been handling things by themselves a lot lately.”
“See you tonight,” she said.
“Not until late.”
She looked at him, puzzled.
“Jenny said you’re both going to the library to hear Grace Fitzgerald read.”
“Oh, that’s right.”
“Stevie’ll help me close up Sam’s Place. We’ll see you after the reading.”
“Fine.”
They kissed. Dryly. Jo got back into her Toyota and headed south.
Cork stepped out under the glaring sun. He realized he’d forgotten his promise to George LeDuc to tell her to stop by. He watched her car pass the store and disappear into the distance, wavy at first in the heat rising up from the pavement, then melting away altogether, as if it-and all it contained-were made of nothing but ice.